Mockingbird
by Skin and Pit
Summary: AU. Sherlock doesn't like pediatricians until he meets Dr. Watson, who gives him skulls instead of lollies.
1. Prologue: Zero

Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme:

_Sherlock as a child is a complete terror especially whenever you take him to places. He really hates going to the doctor's especially and makes sure his visits leave a permanent impact. His parents get fed up over having to go to new doctors all the time because Sherlock's behavior but keep trying._

_They finally go to Dr. Watson and Sherlock doesn't like him at first. But this doctor is different. He's more patient with him and listens to Sherlock instead of feign interest like everyone else. And instead of lollypops, Dr. Watson gives Sherlock a skull as a gift for being good. Sherlock likes Dr. Watson so much that he keeps seeing him, even as he grows up into adulthood. Sherlock will never have another doctor to replace him._

* * *

><p><strong>Zero<strong>

Even as as a newborn, Sherlock hated the nurses. He screamed bloody murder when they picked him up to change his diaper or coax him to drink from a bottle - these tasks theirs because Mrs. Holmes, though no fault of her own, had succumbed to a crippling post-natal depression. Mr. Holmes was on business in Korea and could not be reached.

These were not the normal vocalizations of a colicky child but a guttural wail so loud and so furious it seemed as if the force of it might tear the lining from his lungs. It sounded so much as if he were in pain that, despite his otherwise exemplary health, he was submitted to a battery of tests which kept him in hospital long after his mother had physically recovered.

He stilled only in his brother's arms.

Though the Mycroft was only five, the screaming was so bad that he spent most of his time propped up against the headboard in his mother's bed. His mother lay curled up in the fetal position, facing away. The ridge of her spine rubbed against Mycroft's arm. He rocked the child and whispered words too quiet for the nurses to make out.

If they'd leaned close, they would have heard him whispering, over and over again, "I love you, I love you, I'm here and I'll never go."

They would have seen that his eyes were fierce, fixed with feverish determination on the infant's wrinkled red face.


	2. Seven

_This story will eventually contain triggers for eating disorders and self-injury. _

* * *

><p>So it is that seven years later, Mycroft is the one who piggybacks Sherlock on the way to Doctor Watson at 221B Baker Street. Mummy trails after them, her face washed out and her hair hanging tangled in her face. Daddy is in Singapore.<p>

Sherlock thinks Mycroft is the strongest person in the universe, even if he has to put him down every half a block. He watches the passersby with wide-eyed wonder.

When they get to the subway, it's too crowded for piggyback, so he has to hold onto Mycroft's hand instead. The noises hurt his ears and the data flow makes his head ache. Sherlock buries his face in Mycroft's warm belly and listens to the watery gush of his insides. As soon as they climb back into the sunlight, Mycroft picks him up again.

Finally, as they turn onto Baker Street, Mycroft sets him down for the final time. He puts both his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock looks at his feet. Even though it isn't raining, he's wearing his favorite galoshes.

Mycroft sighs.

"Little brother," he says, "finding a pediatrician in London isn't easy. I'm growing tired of trying. Please do be good to this one."

He gives Sherlock the same speech every time.

"I hate doctors," Sherlock says to his shoes. "I don't want to go. I'm healthy. I want to go home."

"You can't tell that for yourself."

"My heart beat is one hundred twenty-five a minute. The temperature in my timepanic cavity is 36.2. I pass stool thr-"

"Tympanic," Mycroft corrects, then takes his hand and tugs him up the steps. He rings the doorbell, then turns back. "Mummy, we're going in right now. Could you come with us, please?"

His voice always gets gentle when he talks to Mummy. This is one of their rules. Sherlock knows that Mummy is sick with something that makes her sad, like the time his pet rabbit got out and was eaten by a local cat, but worse.

An old woman opens the door. She's wearing a flowery dress. "You smell like cinnamon and ... and something chalky. Are you making cookies?"

"Denture solution," says Mycroft.

Sherlock does not care about that. "Can I have some?" he asks.

Her hands flutter at her throat. "Oh, my," she says, then leans back and calls up the stairs. "John! Your patients are here!"

There is an uneven pounding on the stairs. Sherlock squints, thinking, then yanks Mycroft's arm. Mycroft leans down and inclines an ear towards Sherlock. "A limp. He's got a cane."

He doesn't have to wait for an answer, because they can soon see the man himself proceeding down the steps. He does, indeed, have a metal cane at his side. His hair is a dusty blond.

He looks at the old woman, and pats her shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I can get on from here." His gaze swings first to Mummy, who's hanging back at the door and scratching at the base of her hand, then to Mycroft, and finally to Sherlock. "You must be the Holmes."

Mycroft nods. "Yes. Mummy called earlier about the appointment."

Doctor Watson looks to Mummy again, frowning. "Right. Funny, she sounds quite a bit like you."

Mycroft's hand tightens around Sherlock's, who decides that he hates this man who makes his brother nervous.

But Doctor Watson only rubs his face, then nods. "Right," he says, "I'm sorry, that's no problem. I'm a little tired. I don't usually do ... this. Come on up, then."

He turns and limps up the stairs.

Mycroft tugs him upwards. Mummy follows.

##

When they get upstairs, Doctor Watson won't let Mycroft and Mummy come in with him. Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and corrects his stance to make himself immobile. Even Mycroft gives the Doctor a harsh look and moves to take Sherlock away until the doctor shows him how he'll leave the door open a crack. He explains that Mycroft can come in any time he wants - he just needs to talk to Sherlock alone for a bit, please, for the sake of his privacy.

After that, Mycroft pushes him forwards. Sherlock walks into the room behind Doctor Watson.

It's an office, a stark little thing with green wallpaper and nothing on the walls. It hasn't got certificates like most of the doctors Sherlock has been to - he thinks this might be because Doctor Watson is a consulting pediatrician, whatever that is. There are two chairs in it, one a leather desk chair and the other clearly pulled from the kitchen, because it matches the ones around the table.

Doctor Watson sits in the leather chair and swivels around to face Sherlock. Sherlock looks at the kitchen chair, then crosses his arms and makes his eyes go cold and flat. It's a trick he mastered in the bathroom mirror. He uses it when kids at school try to tease him.

"I'm healthy."

The corners of Doctor Watson's mouth turns up. "Right, of course. Let's just do a few checks to be sure, shall we?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock turns and surveys the room.

There's a skull sitting on the bookshelf, its wide eyes gaping. Doctor Watson catches him looking and stands up, limping towards it. "That's, er - I call him Yorik. Do you want to see?" He turns it around and wags it at Sherlock, as if it were talking. He makes his voice go hoarse, like a dead thing. "Hello, little Sherlock."

Sherlock flattens himself against the wall and narrows his eyes. He doesn't like that voice. It makes his heart jump in his chest. "I'm not little."

"Sorry, sorry. Of course you're not." Quickly, Doctor Watson turns to put it back, but Sherlock sticks out his hands.

"But I want to see. Give it to me."

"Of course." The doctor drops it into his outstretched palms. "You've got a good set of lungs on you."

Sometimes people tell Sherlock that he talks too loud. He doesn't care. He sits down where he is and turns the skull over in his hands. It's smooth. He runs his fingers over the top of the skull, where there are thin indents.

The cane tap-tap-taps against the floor as the doctor limps over. "It's interesting, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"Do you want to know what those are?"

"I know what they are. They're cracks in the skull. The person fell, probably from a great height, because bones are harder than concrete - you can crack them if you get a funny angle, like the time when Mycroft was climbing to reach the mugs at the top of the cupboard and he slipped and snapped his - his -" He shuts his eyes, trying to remember the word. "Lemur. He broke his lemur. But you can't get a skull at a funny angle because it's round, so you'd have to drop it from somewhere high."

For some reason, the corners of the doctor's mouth are twitching.

"That's really clever, Sherlock. It's not exactly right, though."

"Did you drop it after you got it out of a head?"

"Er - no. When you're a baby, your skull is all in pieces. The pieces get stuck together when you grow up, and they make those lines. They're called sutures."

Sherlock thinks about this. He turns the skull over in his hands. Thoughtfully, he rubs his thumb over its teeth, then puts a finger in his mouth to see if his own feel the same. He's not supposed to suck his thumb - Mummy says its dirty and childish and causes dental problems besides - but this is different. His own teeth are rougher, covered with a film that this one doesn't have.

"Is it real, then?"

"It is. Listen, Sherlock. We need to do some tests just to make sure you're completely healthy. Why don't you hold onto that while we do them?"

"What if I don't want to do them?"

"Then I'll have to take Yorik away. Sorry." He sounds so apologetic that Sherlock is sure that if he doesn't some natural law will make itself known. Reluctantly, Sherlock stands. He grips the skull tightly in both hands.

Doctor Watson asks him a bunch of questions. He makes him open his mouth so he can look down his throat. He sticks a device in Sherlock's ear - "36.2," Sherlock informs him, and Doctor Watson laughs and tells him he's brilliant, which makes him feel warm and bright.

When he stands on the scale, Doctor Watson says he must take off his galoshes and cardigan, and let go of the skull. Sherlock frowns.

"What if we put the skull and the cardigan on the galoshes on the scale and measured them without me? Then I'd be whatever is left over."

The doctor stares at him. "Where did you hear that?"

"It was on the Storyteller. On October second, Sir Boast-a-lot meets a dragon who -"

Sometimes, he gets so caught up in doing something that he looses track of the world. It's disconcerting, but he's used to it.

By the time he's done explaining, Sherlock finds himself sitting on Doctor Watson's desk chair, his hands held together and pressed against his lips.

His galoshes are on the floor.

He catches the doctor staring at his bare feet. He doesn't have any socks, and they're covered in dead skin that looks like grey scales. Sherlock pulls his legs in to his chest and glares.

"Sorry," the doctor says again, then rises. "Anyway, I think we're done here. You've been very good, Sherlock."

Sherlock climbs off the chair. "I'm going to hold the skull while you look at Mycroft."

The doctor smiles again. Sherlock decides that he sort of likes the expression after all. "I can't see why not." He passes the skull over, and Sherlock cradles it to his chest. "On you go, then."

###

Afterwards, when Sherlock and Mycroft are both done their examinations, Doctor Watson comes out to speak with Mummy. Sherlock, who's taken up residence in in an overstuffed sofa with a Union Jack pillow on it, explores the skull with his fingers. He's only half-listening. Although it's unlikely that anyone will provide him with this information later, he's long since learned that adult conversations are almost universally boring. Mycroft sits next to him, his squeezing his hands so tight that his knuckles turn white.

He hears snatches of words: 'slightly malnourished', 'clearly intelligent', and 'some concerns about hygiene.'

Once, when the doctor reaches forwards to touch Mummy's shoulder and drops his voice a register, Sherlock catches a whole sentence: 'If you're having difficulties, there's no shame in seeking help.' He says a number and Mummy writes it down.

On the way out, Mummy takes Sherlock's hand. Her fingers are cold. He looks up in surprise, then slips his hand from hers and grabs Mycroft's instead.

With surprising gentleness, Mycroft puts it back around Mummy's. He takes Sherlock's other hand, though, so that's alright.


	3. Seven and a half

One month after their visit, Doctor Watson rings the doorbell. Sherlock sees him from his bedroom window.

He'd been leaning out of it, inspecting the nest in the planter just below. He's not supposed to do that - Mummy says he'll fall, and Mycroft provides him with graphic descriptions of smashed-open heads, apparently under the delusion that Sherlock considers these anything other than delightful - but it's the only way to see it. Although the nest has been empty for a while, there are some crushed blue eggshells in it.

He leans out a little further and calls to Doctor Watson. "Hello! Do you want to come inside?"

The man spins around, searching for the source of the noise, then turns upwards. He lifts his eyebrows. "Oh, it's Sherlock. Should you be leaning out like that?"

"I'm looking at eggs!"

Before the doctor can response, Sherlock slides back inside. Even though it's noon, he's wearing his pyjamas. He pulls on a dark blue bathrobe and runs downstairs. His bare feet smack the wooden staircase, skidding, and he grabs onto the railway to keep from falling.

When he gets to the door, Mummy has already opened it.

This is new.

She's been seeing a person who teaches her how to feel less sad. Bottles of pills have appeared in the bathroom cupboard, too. It must be working, because her hair is shiny a few days out of the week and she's started complaining about things like leaning out of windows. They've got a nanny, too - a woman named Mrs. Turner her feeds them horrible healthy meals.

The doctor is handing her a plastic bag. Sherlock grabs the edge of her shirt, then looks up. It's full of toiletries. All boring, except for the Spiderman toothbrush, which isn't bad. "I get first pick of the toothbrushes," he tells Mummy, then turns to the doctor. "Why are you bringing us soap and things?"

Doctor Watson scratches the back of his head. "I said I'd put a pack together for your mum, as you're my patients."

"Do you do this for all of your patients?"

"Er - you're my only proper ones, actually. I'm more of a consulting -"

But Sherlock has stopped listening, because he's just seen Mycroft coming down the stairs. His brother is rubbing at his eyes, one hand under his shirt to scratch his belly. "I get to pick the toothbrushes because I'm younger!" he calls, then scrambles towards his brother. Sleepily, Mycroft pats his back.

When Sherlock looks back, just for a second, the doctor is smiling.


	4. Ten

Two days before Sherlock's tenth birthday, Mycroft starts dating a girl. Her name is Annie, but she calls herself Anthea, which Sherlock finds entirely understandable. If he had a boring name like Annie, he'd change it too.

She's snarky and clever and a little bit mad. If she weren't constantly occupying his brother, Sherlock would like her very much.

As it stands, she steals his brother. Mummy gets black moods where she must spend long hours sleeping and Daddy is often away on business, but before Anthea he could count upon his brother's undivided attention. Now, more often than not. Mycroft's got his door shut so he can talk on the telephone for hours. If Sherlock knocks, Mycroft snaps at him to amuse himself.

So he does.

He spends most of his time on the computer, clicking through pages of information. He learns about all sorts of interesting things - about giraffes and tobacco ash and the progress of rigor mortis. By the end of the day, his back aches from being hunched over for so long, and his eyes are burning. Sometimes, he learns about things which give him nightmares, but at least they make his dreams interesting.

When he gets bored of that, he stands next to Mycroft's door and presses his ear against the wood. Usually it's too thick and all he can hear is the buzz of Mycroft's voice, but not and again he catches phrase. It's frightening to hear his brother speak so kindly to someone who is not himself.

Love, he knows, is limited. If Mycroft pours all of himself into Anthea, Sherlock will go thirsty.

Perhaps she recognizes his hostility, because Anthea often brings him a present when she comes over - a candy or a folded paper flower. Once she drops a crane red as fresh blood into his open palms and tells him that it stands for peace.

Deciding that he hates her, Sherlock crushes these when she's not looking.

Even so, he likes the way she cups her chin with a hand and leans forwards to listen to him explain what he'd learned on the computer. He tries not to, but the gratification persists.

"You're getting mixed up," she tells him one day. "Your facts are confused. Here, let me teach you a way to remember."

###

He sits on Doctor Watson's desk, swinging his legs back and forth. He's wearing shiny black shoes and a cream-and-brown striped cardigan - an exact replica of the one the storyteller wore. Beside him is his Spiderman backpack, which holds Yorik the Skull. His feet don't come anywhere near the ground.

"It's called the Method of Loci," he's saying, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. "You make a house inside of your mind, then put all the memories inside like things."

"Mm." The doctor looks up. He's got his stethoscope against Sherlock's back. "That's clever. I need you to be quiet for a minute, though."

"Do you want to hear about the varieties of tobacco ash?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"People think they're the same, but they're not. There are different brands, which is easy, and then the ashes change if you smoke them differently. And people always smoke them differently."

The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but shuts his mouth anyway. If he doesn't, Doctor Watson will just harp on and on without listening.

After a minute, he gets bored and gives up. "Are you done yet?"

The doctor sighs. "Yes, yes. Finished." He packs up his stethoscope and walks around so he can face Sherlock. There's a smile on his face. "You're all done. Perfectly healthy. You're about up to proper weight, too."

Sherlock frowns. He doesn't like to be ordinary. Ordinary things are put to the side and forgotten, like Christmas presents that seemed exciting in their wrappers but turn out top be boring when uncovered.

The doctor laughs. "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. You're extraordinary in other ways, of course. You're the first ten-year-old I've met who knows the method of Loci."

It's not enough, but it will do. Sherlock jumps down from the table. "You should work on it, too. It might come in handy some day."

The doctor nods, then pauses. He runs his palm over his mouth. "There's just one thing I'd like to ask you about. Those marks on your arms -"

Sherlock draws back his sleeves. There are abrasions on them, small red marks from where he'd bitten himself. When the word becomes too frantic, it's useful for calming him down. These days, Mycroft is too busy to do it for him. "It's just something I do." The doctor opens his mouth as if to say something, so Sherlock changes the subject. When you start telling people facts about themselves, they usually loose their train of thought. "You aren't really a consulting pediatrician."

"I'm sorry?"

"I've looked you up. You aren't official." Sherlock pulls his sleeves down, folds his hands behind his back and stares up at the doctor. He's been told he's got sharp eyes, not so much like a hawk as like a vulture waiting for something to pick apart. "You've just got a website, and people who come see you when they need help. You're a pediatrician who people consult."

"Well -" The doctor scratches the back of his head, then shrugs. "You've got me."

"It means something. You can't just make up that it means something else."

At this, the doctor pauses. He looks down, frowns, then returns Sherlock's gaze. "If you're worried about whether or not I know enough to treat you -"

"Oh, I'm not." Sherlock grins at him, then presses a finger to his lips. He taps them. "It's interesting. No one else has got an illegal consulting pediatrician for a doctor."

###

On the way out, Mrs. Hudson, who isn't a landlady, gives Sherlock one of her cookies to eat. It's fantastic, even if it's chocolate chip, which is not his favorite. He nibbles on it as he follows after Mycroft.

As they reach the end of the pavement, Mycroft suddenly turns to face Sherlock. "Did you tell him you were lonely?"

"What?" Sherlock, who has never mentioned any such thing, stares up at Mycroft. He frowns. His brother is so tall he has to crane his neck in order to see properly. Sherlock's still got a few years to go before his growth spurt. It's like looking up at a mountain. "I didn't. Of course not."

"When I was leaving, he said it seemed as if you were." Mycroft pauses. "That isn't true, is it?"

Sherlock presses the nail of his index finger into his thumb. "No."

"Good. Well then. He's a bit ... interfering, isn't he?"

Sherlock shrugs. Mycroft ruffles his hair, fondly, then pulls out his cellphone and starts tapping away to Anthea.

It's recently rained. Sherlock stomps in all the puddles so that the murky water will splash onto his brother's pants. He does this all the way home. Mycroft doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't look up even once, and when they get inside, he swerves immediately towards his bedroom so that he can call Anthea.

Sherlock watches him go, then heads for the computer. There are more things to learn. Facts never get bored of you.


End file.
